Fifty Years Old

On this day, I turn fifty.
I have reached an age where the arrogance of youth is tolerated, brushed aside and not challenged.

There is no Pope as we speak. I'm pulling for the Meskin. I wanted a brother, but an hermano is close enough. There's a German in the runnning whose name sounss like Rapsinger. That would be close to a brother but no cigar.

Black smoke drifts from the chimney. The Cardinals wear red, sort of the same texture and level of comfort as Hugh Hefner's pajamas.

I am still younger than Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger. I'm 15 years away from officially being old, according to social security.

I know of businessmen who waited until their fifties before leaving their wives for their mid-life crisis and younger women.

I have no noticeable gray hair. I have no country. I have divorced my family.

I own three cats, maybe a fourth--while jogging through Mishrif--an upscale neighborhood in Kuwait, I pulled a desperately lost and hungry 4-week old kitten from under a hedge row. I immediately named her Mishka. She is nearly blind in one eye. Friendly but very scared. I'm going to nurse her back to health and try to find her a home. Yeah.Right.
Happy birthday to me.